Great journeys: from Chile to Argentina by bike

Mike Carter on a motorbike journey across South America. Photograph: Julia Sanders

We flew across the Chilean Altiplano until, like the world had been bleached, there lay ahead of us nothing but white. We hit the salt flats, riding fast, which felt very wrong, as our senses looked at the big slab of white and told us it had to be slippery, treacherous, no place for a motorcycle. But the tyres bit and gripped as sure as on concrete, and the crust crunched under us. Flamingos looked on.

We passed through the Valley of the Moon as the light faded and the sun went through its valedictions, washing the rocks vermilion then gold then ochre. In the distance, a string of cartoon volcanoes, perfect calderas, and beyond, like a chimera, the High Andes, the brilliant white bonnets fading to grey.

We rolled into San Pedro de Atacama, kicking up a trail of dust. San Pedro was once a major staging post for the great cattle drives of yore, but is now a staging post on the great gringo trail. It's the Dodge City of one's imagination, a Paramount backlot come to life, albeit with internet cafes and poncho shops. Upon entering a door I was surprised to find that there was actually a restaurant beyond, and not just wooden joists holding up the walls.

We ordered some food. Tamales and llama steaks and beer that came in litre bottles. I was loving South America. In the middle of the room was an open fire. Above it a large circular hole in the ceiling, through which we gazed at the stars like diamonds. I asked the waiter what happened when it rained. It doesn't, he said.

I spoke to Dave, who was on the trip with his wife, Liz. Dave worked in a Lincolnshire warehouse and had been saving for five years for the trip. It had been a fantastic introduction to riding in South America, he said, what with Globebusters taking care of shipping the bikes and visas, and next time he thinks he might be confident enough to go it alone. Mike, who was retired, had taken a few trips like this and loved the camaraderie and support. Similarly Resh, formerly known as The Raggedy One, who ran a care home for the elderly. Paul, from Coventry, worked for BT. His nickname was Gargoyle, he said. I asked him why and he stuck out his chin and held the pose. He looked a bit like a gargoyle.

Most on the trip are Bambis – Born Again Mid-Life Bikers – returning to two wheels in middle age when family constraints and budgets allow.

Very early the next morning, we headed off to see the El Tatio geysers. They pop their boiling spumes at exactly the moment the sun rises over the mountains, as surely as someone dropping Mentos into Diet Coke bottles, the physics of which was explained by our guide, but which I didn't fully take in owing to the fact that it was minus 50 and my brain had frozen.

Then we were off to Argentina. Climbing slowly at first, more llama, then some weird-looking rabbits the size of wallabies, and then some things that looked like alpaca but with a certain skittishness. As if they might jump out in front of you and get you repatriated before you could say vicuña. Vicuñas are not a good thing, as I had learnt on day one. I gave them a wide berth.

Still climbing. Then suddenly there was nothing. No scrub, no cactus, no vicuñas, blessed be to God. Just an endless plain with the High Andes cradling and looming over it, like a proscenium arch. My ears popped. The motorbike's console flashed alarmingly. Minus two. Minus four. Minus six. That's the ground temperature. At 80 mph on a motorcycle it's more like minus 30. I lifted my visor to squeeze my nose. My gloves almost fused to it. I had my heated grips on, but I could have been clutching vials of magma and still I wouldn't have felt them.

Still, it could have been worse. At least the asphyxiation-by-helmet I was suffering as we went over the 4,600-metre Paso de Jama took my mind off the cold. To fight off oedemas and to keep myself from slipping into a hypothermic coma, I repeated my mantra: "This is not a holiday it's an adventure; this is not a holiday…"

The border with Argentina lay somewhere up ahead. I just hoped that they had the space blankets ready.

Tomorrow: Into the Valley of the Butterflies

Getting there

Globebusters' High Andes trip lasts for five weeks and costs £5,895pp. The price includes all shipping rates and accommodation. The next High Andes trip runs from April 21 to May 25 2010. For details of this and other Globebusters guided expeditions, including their 135-day Alaska to Patagonia trip and North and West Africa, see globebusters.com; 08452 304015